


Have Another Drink, My Dark-Eyed Beauty...

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Series: Facebook fic prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Get Your Feels Out of My Fling!, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft is a dick, One Night Stands, Screw that, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 09:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18140609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Back in his Uni days, Mycroft Holmes was quite the seducer. One encounter with a dark-eyed beauty still haunts his memory.(Slight dub-con due to plying someone who may or may not be of age with alcohol, then taking them home.)





	Have Another Drink, My Dark-Eyed Beauty...

**Author's Note:**

> Blame it on Wicked. I saw the show, I heard the songs, and this line stuck in my head and wouldn't leave me alone. Then along came the 'drink' prompt on Mystrade is our division...
> 
> In this particular version of the universe, Mycroft is 19 and Greg is 16.

Mycroft Holmes, soul of the British Government, had a secret. He was the keeper of many, the guardian of truths and lies that kept the world spinning and could bring it to a halt. He maintained himself as an untouchable figure, unknown to everyone, hardly recognizable some days even to himself. There were parts of him not even Sherlock knew about, and he fervently hoped they would remain that way ever thus.

For you see, it shamed him as often as it thrilled him to recall that back in his Uni days, Mycroft Holmes had been quite the seducer. Anyone looking at the politician now would hardly have believed it, but 15 years prior he'd been an utter devastation - the somewhat predatory byproduct of inborn entitlement and relief at the shedding of his 'baby' fat image into a whipcord genius. He was never himself, instead giving false names and slipping into skins like bespoke costumes, selecting hunting grounds carefully to avoid anyone he might actually run into in his normal life. 

He had a few modes - Laurence the posh boy in the bad end of town, 2/3 of a three piece and a flawless necktie that made your fingers itch to pull the kid closer or stuff it behind those pearly whites to muffle the sounds you  _knew_  you could get him to make. Laurence's particular quirk was "letting" himself get scruffed up by some punk in jeans, convincing the motorbike rebel or the lead singer of the ear-bleedingly bad band with the sinfully tight leather pants that it was  _their_  idea to blow the pretty untouchable in the toilets. 

Terrence, the shy little bookworm with the unnecessary reading glasses perpetually sliding down his sloping nose, was laughably unprepossessing in his sweater vest and brogues- right up til the moment he was fucking you hard against the bricks in an alley.

Then there was EJ the Byronic swain, all tousled curls and disaffected expression, tailored trousers and a plain white linen buttondown with the sleeves rolled and the smooth plains of his milkwhite chest framed by half done buttoning. He based it on Antony Edwards in  _Brideshead_. The effect was... effective. One longed to put some color in those alabaster cheeks, a spark in those frosted blue eyes, make that mouth say all sorts of nasty things in languages you just _knew_ this Eliot James spoke. 

One night, needing to blow off some pre-examination steam, he was almost himself as he turned up at a rocking pub near Hammersmith. He'd just selected his name for the night when he saw a stunner that made him nearly forget his own. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark jeans, faded Clash tee, flawless skin, lean build on a stocky frame, and a cocky as hell grin that was concealing nerves like an ill-fitting suit. In the bar with a fake ID, but just over the age of consent.  _Oh yes. You'll do nicely._

So Mycroft pressed up close and purred praise and naughty poetry in his little lover's ear and tipped the barman for a suitable bottle to get him good and hammered, then took him to the flat he kept for such things (entirely impersonal, rented under a false name, easily left behind like the boys he allowed there) with the intention of hammering him good. The dark eyed beauty tried to kiss him more than once, though Mycroft only allowed it the first time, letting it linger due to his own unexpected reaction. In less time than the length of most blind dates, he had the boy stripped and those full and pliant lips stretched almost obscenely around Mycroft's cock, more enthusiasm and spit than any real skill but it was... sweet. The testament of it was the almost fond way he stroked the boy's dark locks as he split his time between closed eyes and the falling sensation he got from staring into those pools of moonlit forest and whispered desires smothered in dark chocolate.

The boy giggled when his back hit the sheets, watching the ceiling spin pleasantly until Mycroft directed him to hands and knees facing the door with a few words and a quick swat to his pert buttocks. The temporary paramour bit back a hiss while Mycroft prepared him with smooth efficiency - exactly enough to handle what was on offer. It was not slow or steady or sweet. It started fast and escalated quickly, getting a little too hard as Mycroft allowed himself to get a little lost, something he almost never permitted. Their fingers met and tangled briefly over the rolled wood of the footboard while Mycroft filled a French condom almost to bursting and pulled the boy off with a few slick strokes and let their sweat mingle for a moment while he caught his breath, leaning over the taut muscles of the boy's glistening back. Easing out with a breath drawn through his teeth, he directed them both back to fall into the rucked up sheets and catch huffing breaths of still, sex-stained air. He tied the condom and shot it unerringly at the wastebin, willing his pulse to steady as he weighed the benefits of a second go against the constraints on his time. The younger man settled against him with a sigh _(Mmmm, can we do that again?)_ and his hand of its own volition ruffled the boy's sweaty sable spikes like he might a puppy for a well performed trick. A minute more, and he'd get up and clean them off and maybe make some tea, then see about having the kid ride him and mess them both up again before he had to get dressed and...

It was firmly and irrefutably morning when Mycroft next opened his eyes. The night previous reformed in his mind piece by piece like a puzzle, and he slipped from the bed only a little unsteadily after carefully dislodging the boy curled against his side, head over his heart, warm arm tucked tight around his waist, leg flung across his own. There was a soft smile on the still dreaming face of his assignation.

It all felt... wrong somehow. He never  _slept_  with his conquests. He didn't indulge in such things. If there existed the remotest possibility of a second round, he took himself off while they napped and read, or had a cup of tea, or relaxed in the shower. Caring was a disadvantage.

He rinsed off quickly in the bathroom and dampened a flannel, stepping out with a towel tucked round his hips to tend to the boy only to find him half awake, that strange little smile still on his lips and hinting in his warm eyes. Mycroft barely registered these dimming as he cleaned him efficiently, pulling his clothes on while directing the boy to stay if he wished. There was a shower, fresh towels, a few things in the kitchen for breakfast and the makings for tea. He paused in his final sweep of the room for anything of his he'd missed when his tie was offered into his periphery. The boy was still curled up on the bed, knees to his chest, toes fisting into the bedclothes. Mycroft took the strip of fabric with perfunctory thanks and draped it over his neck without doing it up as he turned to go.

"Can I..." The boy was biting his lip, worrying at it, voice shy and quiet. Something about it unsettled Mycroft, deeply, like someone dropping a pebble into a well of still water. "Umm... get your number?"

Well that was... unexpected. The unsettled feeling persisted, poking at him. He shoved it down, pasting on a smirk that couldn't be seen from this angle but would seep into his voice.

"Whatever for?"

Then he departed without a second backward glance, already reordering his latest essay (not due another week yet) for his Ethics class.

He went back a few days later for a favoured pen he'd left in the desk, and he was... surprised. There was no sign the other night had ever happened. What food there was had not been touched, no dish sat out of place, the trash had been taken out and the bed had been made with military precision. The only thing of note was a crumpled piece of paper in a wastebin, bearing a few crossed out lines, 2 letters (Gr) and what might've been the start of a phone number. Mycroft balled it up tightly and dropped it back in the bin, retrieved his pen and left.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone asks, yes this will probably continue. But since I don't know when and what I had so far works (I think) as a one-shot, I figured I'd post and sort the rest out later.
> 
> In the meantime, kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated. I'm gonna go have a drink and contemplate my life choices.


End file.
